Affectionate Mrs. Bulstrode was particularly glad of the advantage which her husband’s health was likely to get from the purchase of Stone Court.  Few days passed without his riding thither and looking over some part of the farm with the bailiff, and the evenings were delicious in that quiet spot, when the new hay-ricks lately set up were sending forth odors to mingle with the breath of the rich old garden.  One evening, while the sun was still above the horizon and burning in golden lamps among the great walnut boughs, Mr. Bulstrode was pausing on horseback outside the front gate waiting for Caleb Garth, who had met him by appointment to give an opinion on a question of stable drainage, and was now advising the bailiff in the rick-yard.

Mr. Bulstrode was conscious of being in a good spiritual frame and more than usually serene, under the influence of his innocent recreation.  He was doctrinally convinced that there was a total absence of merit in himself; but that doctrinal conviction may be held without pain when the sense of demerit does not take a distinct shape in memory and revive the tingling of shame or the pang of remorse.  Nay, it may be held with intense satisfaction when the depth of our sinning is but a measure for the depth of forgiveness, and a clenching proof that we are peculiar instruments of the divine intention.  The memory has as many moods as the temper, and shifts its scenery like a diorama.  At this moment Mr. Bulstrode felt as if the sunshine were all one with that of far-off evenings when he was a very young man and used to go out preaching beyond Highbury.  And he would willingly have had that service of exhortation in prospect now.  The texts were there still, and so was his own facility in expounding them.  His brief reverie was interrupted by the return of Caleb Garth, who also was on horseback, and was just shaking his bridle before starting, when he exclaimed—­

“Bless my heart! what’s this fellow in black coming along the lane?  He’s like one of those men one sees about after the races.”

Mr. Bulstrode turned his horse and looked along the lane, but made no reply.  The comer was our slight acquaintance Mr. Raffles, whose appearance presented no other change than such as was due to a suit of black and a crape hat-band.  He was within three yards of the horseman now, and they could see the flash of recognition in his face as he whirled his stick upward, looking all the while at Mr. Bulstrode, and at last exclaiming:—­

“By Jove, Nick, it’s you!  I couldn’t be mistaken, though the five-and-twenty years have played old Boguy with us both!  How are you, eh? you didn’t expect to see me here.  Come, shake us by the hand.”  To say that Mr. Raffles’ manner was rather excited would be only one mode of saying that it was evening.  Caleb Garth could see that there was a moment of struggle and hesitation in Mr. Bulstrode, but it ended in his putting out his hand coldly to Raffles and saying—­